


Revelations

by cyphernaut



Series: Sick Day Universe [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Discipline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: Sherlock has been acting more strangely than normal, but there's nothing John Watson can't handle.This is the beginning of the ageplay relationship as depicted in the Sick Day universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to Embalmer56 for all the support in making sure this got posted.

When Sherlock had told John that he'd go days on end without talking, John had assumed that Sherlock would spend those days in his room, or somewhere else in isolation, not perched on the sitting room sofa sneaking peeks at John every few seconds.

“Sherlock, if this is some sort of experiment that you're doing on me, stop it now.”

Sherlock's face jerked down to his notes, and John stood.

“Tea?” he asked, and when Sherlock maintained his silence, John answered for him. “Why, yes, John, that would be lovely. Thank you for offering.”

Sherlock scribbled furiously onto the paper before him, and John reached his breaking point.

“What are you writing?” he demanded, crossing the few metres between them and grabbing at the notes. Before he could see anything, Sherlock snatched everything to his chest and stalked back to his room.

* * *

Over the next few days, Sherlock's odd behaviour persisted as John's patience waned. John thought he might be driven out of his mind, until an opportunity presented itself in the form of an experiment gone wrong. As Sherlock scrambled to contain the toxic gas he’d inadvertently released into the kitchen, John picked up his files. It provided more questions than answers, but at least John knew what to ask. 

“What is this?” he demanded, as soon as Sherlock had vented the poison.

Sherlock didn’t even look at the paper, just continued picking at the broken glass on the counter. “A drawing.”

“Yes, I know it's a drawing. Why have you been drawing me? And why does it look like a child drew it?”

“Did you know that anthropological studies have shown that what we consider child-like drawings were actually common in pre-historic cultures, and that-”

“Why are you drawing me, Sherlock?!” John slammed the paper onto the table. “If this is another one of your experiments, I want it to stop.”

“Honestly, John, do you see any identifiable features in this drawing?” Sherlock turned it on its side. “It barely resembles a human at all.”

John took a deep breath and calmed himself before speaking. “It is a human. It is me. I want to know _why_.”

Sherlock stood in silence, his usual response to being caught in a lie. John waited it out until Sherlock opened his mouth again. “It was for a case.”

“Bollocks.”

John stared as Sherlock’s face pinkened under his scrutiny. He looked on the verge of a breakdown, and John couldn’t imagine what could be so terrible as to shame a man who frequently went out of his way to flout social mores. Sherlock turned and hovered over the little bin where he’d placed the broken glass, his back to John as he spoke.

“I… I wasn’t myself when I drew it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t be dull, John. It means exactly what it appears to mean. I wasn’t myself.”

John ran a hand over his face. “Were you high?”

“No!” Sherlock faced him, outraged at the accusation.

“Then what?”

“I was just in a different frame of mind. Younger. I’d prefer not to speak of it.”

John shook his head. “If you didn’t want me to find out, I wouldn’t have done.”

Sherlock stared at the table between them. 

“Why did you want me to know, Sherlock?”

“That.. part of me… wants to interact with you.”

John nodded. “All right.”

“No, it is not ‘all right’, John! You have no conception of what this means.”

“Sherlock, I’ve dealt with all sorts at the surgery. You’re telling me that you go into a younger mindset. It doesn’t seem that complicated.”

“Of course it’s not complicated,” Sherlock scoffed.

“And it has to be better than having you stare at me from across the room for three days. I really don’t see the problem.”

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to protest, but in the end, he only gave John a curt nod. “After your shift at the surgery tomorrow.”

* * *

John walked the seventeen steps up to their home unsure what he’d face. While he’d apparently seen his flatmate in this “younger” mindset many times before, Sherlock had always been hiding it. John turned the doorknob, apprehensive about what he’d find beyond the doorway.

Sherlock sat in his chair, looking over the papers, as usual.

“Hello,” John greeted him, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it up by the door.

Sherlock glanced quickly up at him, then back down to his reading.

“I’m making some tea, do you want any?” he asked.

When Sherlock only answered with silence, John turned back, catching a small glimpse of his flatmate’s face as the man ducked behind his papers. John started the kettle before walking to Sherlock’s chair and pulling down on the flimsy barricade. “It wouldn’t hurt to acknowledge me, you know.”

Sherlock finally met his gaze, and John’s breath caught. He’d never seen his friend so open. Sherlock stared at him with a mix of wonder and apprehension, two words he’d never thought to associate with either of the Holmes brothers.

“There you are, love,” he said, tagging on the endearment without thought. Sherlock blinked at it, and John felt himself being deduced. “Would you like some tea?”

Sherlock shook his head, then pulled his knees up to his chest.

“Suit yourself,” John replied. He returned to the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle and poured some water over a tea bag. Sherlock still hadn’t said anything, watching John carefully with his head resting on his kneecaps. John sat down in his chair across from his taciturn flatmate.

“No drawings?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, opened his mouth, then closed it again, brow knit tightly over his eyes.

“Something you want to say?”

Sherlock nodded, but kept his silence. John sipped his tea. Finally, Sherlock took a biro and from the table, scribbled on the top edge of the paper he’d been reading, and handed it over to John.

 _I’ve never talked before._ was scrawled out in large, shaky letters.

“You’ve never talked before when you’re in this frame of mind, you mean?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you think you can do?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“It’s all right if it takes some time.”

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock was showing John the various pictures he’d secretly been drawing over the last few weeks.

“And I suppose that’s me, there.” John pointed to a stick figure standing next to a cup of tea.

“Obviously,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Obviously,” John echoed with a laugh. “I’m starting to detect a motif here.”

Ducking his head, Sherlock pulled out the next picture in the stack.

“Why do you like drawing me so much, Sherlock?”

“Because I like it,” Sherlock answered.

Smiling at the tautology, John yawned as he stretched to his feet. “As lovely as this has been, I need to get to bed.”

“What about me?”

John peered down at his flatmate, still curled up in his chair. “What do you mean?”

“Do I need to get to bed, too?”

“That’s up to you, I suppose.”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m going to stay awake the whole night.”

“Suit yourself.”

“There are some experiments I need to work on, anyway. And a violin composition.”

John began to ascend the stairs to his room. “Good night, Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter 2

John started awake at a crash below him. He stumbled to his feet as the noise continued, reaching blindly for his dressing gown and slippers before making his way down the stairs to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was already there, fluttering in agitation at the sight before them. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, half the furniture upended around him.

“It’s half two in the morning.” Mrs. Hudson protested, before John could make any sense of the situation.

John, as usual, took responsibility for the chaos that Sherlock had created. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hudson.”

“At my time of life...” she chided, exiting the room, giving John free rein to direct his annoyance at Sherlock.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Suiting myself.” Sherlock grabbed a chair, and was very close to tipping it on its side, when John took it from his grasp.

“Stop it!”

The command tone had the desired effect, and Sherlock froze before him.

“I-” The man blinked rapidly, then shook his head. “John.”

Sherlock seemed disoriented enough that John’s anger dissipated as his medical instincts kicked in. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t…” Sherlock scanned the room before resuming his customary cool demeanor. “Yes, I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

“What’s going on?” John asked him, setting the chair aside and reaching for his friend’s face.

Sherlock shook him off. “Honestly, John, for someone concerned about the amount of sleep that you’re getting, you’re certainly adverse to going back to bed.”

Pressing his lips together, John considered it. If Sherlock didn’t want his help, they’d both be better off with John getting some more sleep. As least as long as the sitting room wasn’t upended in the meantime. “Fine. Good night.”

* * *

John sipped his coffee, desperate for it to take effect after the events of the previous night. Sherlock was infuriatingly unaffected by the lack of sleep, mired in his mobile, and John let his irritation show as he grabbed the last piece of toast. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock swiped at something on his phone.

“I know you were upset about something last night, and I’d like to know what it was.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“If you’re going to wake me up in the middle of the night, you could at least have the courtesy to tell me why.”

When no response was forthcoming, John snatched the phone from his flatmate’s hands. 

“Sherlock. Talk to me.”

“You have to leave for the surgery, John,” Sherlock said, making no attempts to retrieve his phone.

“Not for another twenty minutes, which is plenty of time for you to explain what the hell happened last night.”

“I woke you in the middle of the night.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s hardly an unusual occurrence.”

“This wasn’t an experiment gone wrong, Sherlock. You threw a strop.”

Sherlock reacted in exactly the way John had expected, with a condescending huff crafted precisely to provoke a derailing argument. “Of course that’s what you’d assume. Your deductive abilities, as always-”

“No,” John cut him off. “You threw a strop, and I want to know why.”

“Your premise is unsound, John. Give me my phone.”

John was irritated enough that he considered refusing, but his better judgement won out. Sherlock was lying, but John couldn’t _make_ him tell the truth, and trying to do so would just frustrate them both. He decided to leave for the surgery early and take the long route through the park so he could cool off before seeing any patients. He placed the phone back in Sherlock’s hands and walked away. “Fine, but you have to talk to me about this eventually.”

As he put on his coat and reached for the door, Sherlock’s voice rang out. “And why should I?”

Taken aback, John spun back around to see Sherlock glaring at him. Not a cool, detached, Holmesian sneer, but a resentful scowl that was quickly melting into a sulk under John’s scrutiny.

“What is going on with you, Sherlock?”

“Nothing!” Sherlock snapped, but his eyes were filling with tears, and John rushed back to try to make some sense of it.

He took Sherlock’s face in his hands, but before he could do anything else, Sherlock leaned into him, burying himself in John’s chest. John couldn’t help but to wrap his arms around him.

“I’m guessing you’re young again, then,” John commented, and the mop of hair pressed against his chest nodded slightly. The lack of snide comments about John’s intelligence would have been revealing enough, even without the explicit confirmation. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “And I’m guessing you’re not too keen on me leaving for work.”

Sherlock shook his head, and John reached behind himself to pull over a chair, sliding down into it without breaking contact with his flatmate and friend. When he was finally settled, he pulled back to look Sherlock in the eyes, wiping the few stray tears that still stained the man’s cheeks.

“I tell you what, love. This is my last day at the surgery this week, and I can promise to spend the next two days with you, if that’s what you want.”

Sniffling softly, Sherlock nodded.

* * *

The situation with Sherlock had been on John’s mind all day, and he’d used every spare minute to decide how exactly he’d go about talking to Sherlock when he returned. Sherlock was never one for open communication, and he seemed particularly reticent about the topic of this younger headspace.

John had been forced to the Internet, where most of his research had led him to either dissociative disorders or sexual scenarios that were certainly not what his flatmate had in mind. Some information had been valuable, though, and John returned home armed with strategies to ensure that the expectations were clear on both sides.

When he entered the flat, he saw that the furniture was again in its proper place, other than a sheet that had been strung between the two armchairs. Sherlock sat under the canopy, tapping away on John’s laptop. 

After laying his own belongings aside, John squatted down beside his friend, ignoring the cracking of his knees as he grabbed the seat of his chair for support. “I’m back from work.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock continued to tap away.

“I was hoping we could talk before dinner.”

Sherlock let out a noncommittal hum, and John closed the laptop and placed it aside.

“I’d like you in your adult headspace when we talk.” The vocabulary felt strange on his tongue, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He simply ignored John’s words in favour of walking to the kitchen, where he began to rummage through the glassware.

John pulled himself up from the floor and followed as Sherlock arranged two beakers on the kitchen table. The last thing they needed was to add an experiment into the mix, but John was determined to stay on topic. “I need you to be grown up right now.”

“No.” Sherlock had already turned his back on John and was opening the fridge to grab a nasty looking fungus from the shelf. “You said you’d spend two days with me, and I’m not going away.”

“I don’t want you to go away, Sherlock. I just need to have an adult conversation with you so I don’t upset you again when we play.”

Sherlock set the fungus on the kitchen table next to the beakers. “Then you’re as useless at not upsetting me as you are at everything else.”

John’s jaw clenched at the insult. Sherlock’s childish behaviour didn’t differ significantly from his everyday churlishness, and John resisted the instinct to retreat to his bedroom, as he normally would in such circumstances. His hands itched for something to occupy them, and he began to make himself a cup or tea. As much as he wanted to put some space between himself and Sherlock’s mood, he know he wouldn’t leave a child to work through a mood on his own.

He considered his options as he waited for the kettle. If Sherlock were an actual child, John could leverage the authority adults often had in such matters, but he had no way of enforcing such authority with Sherlock, and no reason to believe that Sherlock would respond well to any attempts at discipline.

The kettle clicked off, and John poured the water into his mug before turning back to his friend. Mentally investing himself with all the authority he could muster, John insisted, “Sherlock, if you want to do this, we _will_ talk about it first, and you _will_ be in an adult headspace when we do so.”

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. “Clearly you have no idea how the process works. It can’t be forced. If it could-”

“I believe you can, and you’re going to need to do so before we continue this,” John said firmly. "Now, I’m going into the sitting room to drink my tea. When you’re ready to talk, as an adult, I’ll be there.”

Spinning on his heels, John extracted himself from the brewing argument. He was three steps into the sitting room when Sherlock’s desperate voice stopped him. “John, wait!”

He steeled himself and continued to his chair, where he sat down and began to sip his tea. It was still too hot, and he blew gently across the top. He could glimpse Sherlock’s miserable form from the corner of his eye, where his friend had followed him into the room.

“You’re not listening to me!” Sherlock pleaded.

John tried the tea again, and it had cooled to a bearable temperature. He did his best to enjoy it as Sherlock wound himself up into an impressive strop, railing against John’s inability to understand the situation, unwillingness to transcend his own ignorance, and all manner of shortcomings in a litany of provocations that did nothing to deter John from his tea. Finally, his insults exhausted, Sherlock resorted to kicking the leg of the chair and snatching the mug from John’s hand.

That was quite enough for John, and he grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and stood.

“Sherlock Holmes!” he snapped, and Sherlock flinched from him. John took a deep breath and loosened his grip, just as Sherlock recovered and began to glower unconvincingly. John lay his other hand lightly on Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that slipped toward it. “Just one conversation to work out the details, and then we can play.”


End file.
